


Besetting Sins

by Drenagon



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Alternate Universe, Complete, M/M, Season/Series 01, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-05-29 05:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6361687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drenagon/pseuds/Drenagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson begins his friendship with Hobbs because he's bored. He continues it because he's curious, and curiosity has always been one of his besetting sins.</p>
<p>What happens after that takes him completely by surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I began watching Ripper Street a few weeks ago and this idea got stuck in my brain and would not go away. There will be a major veer away from canon at the end of Season 1 (no prizes for guessing where) and, while I will otherwise try to stick to canon for the most part, a few other bits may also go by the wayside. 
> 
> The main one for this first chapter is that I am ignoring the existence of Hobbs' wife. I don't feel too bad about this, considering she gets about 30 seconds of screen time in the whole series!

Chapter One

Captain Homer Jackson isn’t a man ashamed of much that he’s done. There are a few exceptions, of course… every man has his secrets and secrets don’t tend to be kept because you’re afraid of public adulation. Generally, though, he moves forward, avoids looking back, and has only a passing acquaintance with regret.

Even so, he’s somewhat ashamed that his friendship with Constable Dick Hobbs begins mostly because he’s bored.

Jackson’s not like Reid, giving Hobbs more and more attention as time goes by because he can see the potential there. Potential to be a good policeman, a fine protector for a part of London so desperately in need of protectors.

He’s not like Drake or Artherton, fond of the lad for his own sake and teaching him the tricks of their trade for his benefit; one more weapon in the arsenal of self-preservation.

No, Jackson takes Hobbs under his wing because he’s bored. Bored, irritable and looking for something to ease some of the frustration that comes of dealing with Reid when he damn well won’t take no for an answer. Goddamn holier-than-thou asshole.

Hobbs is young, green and eager to please, reluctant to refuse any duty that might impress his superiors, even if it means suffering through the work in the Dead Room. He may not want to work with Jackson at the beginning – they’re autopsying to check for a potential case of cholera, for Christ’s sakes, of course the boy doesn’t want to be there – but he does his duty well.

As for Jackson… really it meant very little to him which member of H Division he was sent that first time. He just needed someone to help him shift the lardy City banker around so he could check if this was going to be another New Orleans. He can admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that he received a twisted sort of glee from watching the lad trying not to throw his guts up on the Dead Room floor, but it was little different to the tests thrown at medical students the world over. Get them in the operating theatre, see if they can handle the gore. If they faint, clearly they were never meant for the job they’re so eager to start anyway.

Hobbs doesn’t faint.

He looks sick and pale, he closes his eyes, he turns his head away as Jackson uses brute force to get the autopsy underway. At least twice it looks like he might go. But he doesn’t faint. He doesn’t walk out. He gives Jackson what he needs when he needs it and doesn’t ask stupid questions that would distract Jackson at a crucial moment.

He’s useful.

Jackson’s not come across many useful people in Leman Street. Generally the men here just get in his way, treat him with suspicion at exactly the moment when it’s least convenient, drag him out of perfectly comfortable gutters because Reid is hollering his name yet again. He’s bored of these men and their rule-abiding ways. Reid interests him, with his secrets. To some extent Drake does the same, though mostly he just enjoys the way that the man ruffles up when Jackson inevitably prods at him.

Hobbs, until now, he’s just lumped in with all the others. H Division wallpaper, one constable among a gaggle of them.

Now, though, he’s become something a bit different. Something a little less boring.

In being useful, he’s settled into another category.

He’s a curiosity.

And anyone who knew Homer Jackson from the life when he was Matthew Judge could tell you that curiosity was one of his many besetting sins.

Neither of them stands a chance.

***

The curiosity starts with the big questions. Or the ones that are important for their current situation anyway.

Can Hobbs handle the reality of the rest of Jackson’s work? (He can, even if he occasionally looks a little shaky).

Can he learn this part of police work as quickly as he learnt Reid’s blasted new machine? (He can. In fact, he might even be faster at this part once he gets going).

Can he continue to avoid driving Jackson mad while they’re working out what this stain is, or what that potion might contain? (He can, and it still fills Jackson with a certain amount of wonder. Having Drake and Reid in his space is generally little more than an annoyance but Hobbs remains useful).

It’s only as time goes by, as they spend hours and days in the Dead Room, working on the minutiae of Reid’s cases, that Jackson finds personal curiosity squirming its way in as well.

What made Hobbs choose police work in the first place?

Where does he go when he’s not at the station?

What does he do when he’s not being Constable Hobbs?

If he ever isn’t Constable Hobbs, of course. Jackson’s always found that men who choose the police are remarkably difficult to separate from their jobs. One of the many reasons he was so reluctant to join Reid’s merry band of law-enforcers.

Jackson’s seen enough addictions to recognise them on sight, and he has no need of another.

It turns out that the answers to these later questions are fairly easily found. Hobbs, with no reason to distrust the doctor Inspector Reid employs for H Division, is perfectly happy to answer them openly.

‘I started as an errand boy, Sir,’ he tells Jackson, as they sit trying to decipher the mystery of a chemical found in a murdered pimp’s blood. A poison, Jackson has already surmised, but not one he’s ever seen before. Hobbs was the one to try and calm the tart who found him. She was all of 14 years old, sobbing her heart out and clinging to the young Constable like he was her only protection in the world. It’s clearly unnerved Hobbs and he looks out towards the rest of the station frequently, still worried about the girl. He has a soft heart, the young Constable and, as Jackson comes out of his self-absorption, that softness brings out a protective instinct he usually only feels for Susan’s girls. So he tries to distract Hobbs with these general questions, and satisfies his curiosity at the same time.

‘Artherton brought me in. I did errands for a whole load of people once I was old enough. Artherton used to see me running about when he was on his rounds.’

‘Artherton?’ Jackson can’t help asking. ‘On his rounds?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Hobbs confirms with a small but swift smile. ‘The old desk sergeant was still on duty then. They’re like monuments, you see, desk sergeants. You’re stuck with them until they finally crumble from old age. Unless you destroy them, but you wouldn’t have wanted to try that on old Babcock. He made Sergeant Drake look mild-mannered.’

‘The Heavens forbid,’ Jackson drawls, looking up from the vial he’s currently swishing liquid around in. ‘You mean Drake isn’t the worst Whitechapel has to offer?’

‘Probably is now,’ Hobbs comments, still smiling. ‘They carried Babcock out on one of our stretchers. That was when Artherton became desk sergeant, and we’ll probably have to do the same with him.’

‘So, Artherton’s on his rounds and he spots a young Dick Hobbs running errands around Whitechapel…,’ Jackson summarises, realising they’ve drifted a little from their point. ‘How does the lad become a copper?’ Hobbs laughs slightly at the slang term in Jackson’s American accent, shaking his head.

‘I’m quick,’ Hobbs tells Jackson simply, no hint of boasting in his tone, though there’s a small twitch of the lips that suggests he is proud of this fact. ‘Artherton noticed. Then one day he saw me running from some of the other lads. I’d got one of the best paid errands that day, but it was paid well because the shop-owner didn’t care who did the job as long as it got done. He’d happily hand an order to one lad and pay another if they returned with the goods, supposing they had it done in “good time”.’ The words are clearly a quote, said whilst mimicking a deeper tone.

‘Anyway, I got the job and some of the older ones came after me on my way back, wanting to get the payment. I knew when I picked the order up what was going to happen though. It had happened every day that week. So I made sure I took the route towards Leman Street, to take me past Tom Watson’s place. Threw a tiny bit of meat behind me, watched his pack of dogs go mad for it, then madder still when the other boys crashed into them. Made it clear away and got the money home to my Mum before they could get it off me.

‘Half an hour later, Artherton’s at the door telling Mum he wants me to run errands for the police,’ he shrugs, his body appearing casual. ‘He said I was quick in my head as well as on my feet, and it would make me a good fit. I liked the work once I started. I wanted to help people round here, and we do that, as best we can. All I had to do was wait to be old enough to join; 21 seems a long way off when you’re 12.’

‘And when you don’t save people?’ Jackson asks without entirely meaning to. It sounds a hard question in Jackson’s usual sarcastic tone, and Hobbs takes it as such, closes down a little. Jackson resist the urge to curse. That wasn’t the intention at all, but his mouth always did get him into trouble.

‘Some days it seems impossible,’ Hobbs acknowledges, forcing diffidence into his voice. It’s unnatural for him, and Jackson starts slightly at the realisation that he’s spent enough time around this lad to know what’s natural for him and what isn’t. He’s been paying more attention than he realised. ‘We don’t catch enough of the criminals, we struggle to keep hold of the ones we do catch. When the tarts were being ripped it was... Inspector Reid was right, it was hell on earth. Everyone so scared, especially the girls on the streets, but everyone knew we couldn’t protect them all, because in the end that monster would always find a tart to go with him. But we still do some good. We save the ones we can.’

Hobbs shrugs again and Jackson lets a smile pass over his face, trying to take some of his natural smirk out of it. The nod he gives Hobbs is, he hopes, understanding. It seems to have worked, for some of that forced diffidence fades.

‘We’d better crack on if we’re going to work out what’s been happening here,’ Hobbs says, as close to a reprimand as he could be comfortable giving. Jackson suppresses a laugh. He’s going to have to teach Hobbs a little about command and presence, clearly. If he’s that tentative with criminals they’ll chew him up and spit him back out.

‘Indeed,’ Jackson agrees dryly. ‘I’d hate for Reid to decide I’d been slacking!’

Hobbs’ response is so slight that Jackson almost misses it. He doesn’t, though, catches the small eye-roll out of the corner of his own eye.

It’s just one more tug at Jackson’s ever-present curiosity.

***

It turns out that, when not on his beat, Hobbs lives at the Whitechapel section house. Given a few moments of thought, Jackson realised, he could have figured that one out for himself. Young Constables with no dependents are expected to live there or at the station, and even Jackson would have noticed if Hobbs never left Leman Street.

Jackson learns, from an encounter on the street with the Hobbs family one evening, that Dick Hobbs visits his family every other day. Hobbs’ mother and sister are ever eager to see he’s being properly fed and Jackson deduces that Hobbs uses this as a good excuse to ensure that most of his meagre pay goes to them.

Jackson suspects this says a great deal about Hobbs and his priorities. After all, Susan is fond of pointing out how many of his fellows have spent their money in a very different manner, on the girls at her establishment. To Jackson’s knowledge Hobbs has never been one of them. His call to visit Tenter Street comes from duty, not desire.

Whether Reid notices the growing friendship between his Constable and his American Captain, or whether he is simply used to yelling Hobbs’ name when he wants something done quickly, Jackson can’t be sure. What he does know is that suddenly it is Hobbs who is sent to drag him out of bed whenever Reid requires his presence.

Why his presence is always required just as he’s fallen asleep, or when he’s having another wonderful encounter with Rose’s… apparatus, is a question Jackson would very much like the answer to. He is grumbling something to this effect on this particular occasion, as Rose struts saucily out of the room. She takes great joy in Hobbs’ uncomfortably straight-backed posture and attempt to look anywhere but at her. Or Jackson.

It’s the first time that Jackson is introduced to the sharper side of the boy’s tongue, though not the last.

‘It’s hard not to disturb you amidst,’ here he pauses for a long breath, stuttering slightly, ‘ _relations_ when you never seem to be involved in anything else!’ Hobbs’ sheer indignation gives Jackson as much pause as his words. He’s heard that tone over criminal acts, over escapes from justice. Even, occasionally, over the price of food. He’s never heard it aimed at him before. Hobbs’ ‘Sir’ is quite clearly tacked on to the end as an afterthought, something else Jackson can’t remember hearing before.

His brief contemplation is interrupted by a dry laugh from Susan, who has appeared in the corridor at some point during this exchange.

‘Never a truer word was spoken, Constable,’ Susan tells the lad. Hobbs jumps, looking very much like a rabbit taken unawares for a moment. Despite his shock at Hobbs’ behaviour Jackson feels sympathy for him. Susan has that effect on him sometimes, though he’d never show it.

‘Mis… Miss Hart,’ Hobbs manages after a second. ‘I am sorry to disturb you.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Jackson mutters, suddenly annoyed, though by what he’s not sure. ‘You’re sorry to disturb _her_.’

‘Miss Hart isn’t the police surgeon,’ Hobbs tells him with unaccustomed firmness. Really, if the boy’s only going to find this stubborn streak when it comes to Jackson then he needs to put a stop to it sooner rather than later.

‘ _I’m_ not the damned police surgeon!’ he objects, only to have Susan decide to intervene again.

‘I had heard tell that Reid now paid you a wage, Captain,’ she comments acidly. ‘Not that I ever see a single penny of it, so perhaps I am mistaken.’

‘Oh, don’t you start carping,’ Jackson says as dismissively as possible. He’s heard this complaint at least twice this week already and they’ve not made it past Wednesday yet. ‘Hobbs, what is it that’s so important it couldn’t wait ‘til morning?’

‘Inspector Reid will say when you get to the station, Sir,’ Hobbs replies stolidly. Jackson takes one look at him and knows he won’t win that battle. He forfeits it, rather than start a war, choosing instead to growl under his breath as he gathers the last of his things.

‘Ignore him,’ he hears Susan say to Hobbs. It catches his attention for there’s gentleness in her tone, and not the false sort she saves for gulling those she disdains as idiots. ‘There are not enough well-mannered men in the world. Don’t let this idiot talk you out of being one of them. Now,’ and her voice is firmer again, ‘I cannot deny I would much rather have you coming to roust Jackson than Reid. You are quieter, more polite and considerably nicer to look at.’

Jackson is turning as she says it, plopping his hat down upon his head, and is in plenty of time to watch Hobbs go bright red at her words. Susan continues as if she hasn’t noticed.

‘The uniform, however, will have to go. It makes our gentlemen nervous, and nervous men do not give my house their custom. So, we will do a deal, you and I.’ Hobbs is back to looking like the startled rabbit. Jackson feels no pity, not after the needless barbs that have been slung his way this evening.

Very well, he feels a little pity. It is Hobbs, after all, and he is completely out of his depth with women. But _only_ a little.

‘You,’ Susan pronounces emphatically, ‘will do away with your hat and coat before you tread the stairs of my establishment. In turn, I will speak to my girls and tell them that they are to cease tormenting you when you come here. They mean nothing by it - I believe they think you are rather sweet – but clearly it makes you uncomfortable and so I will ask them to refrain.’

Hobbs is silent for a long moment, face almost blank. After several breaths Susan grows impatient and prompts him.

‘Well, boy? Do we have a deal?’

‘Yes,’ Hobbs is startled into saying. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Wonderful,’ Susan replies cheerfully. ‘Now, our business done, you may take this ingrate away to whatever fate your Inspector has in mind for him.’

‘You’re all heart, Susan,’ Jackson grouses, though mostly for form’s sake. He has no idea what has just passed here, but he has a strong feeling it cannot end well for him. Susan’s happiness rarely ends well for him these days.

He tries not to miss the days when it did.

‘Don’t start carping, Jackson,’ she commands him firmly, all too aware of her mimicry. ‘Out! Oh, and Hobbs?’

The boy turns to look at her curiously, even as he walks down the corridor.

‘You may call me Miss Susan.’

Oh, that confirms it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good for Jackson at all.

***

What develops is one of the strangest patterns Jackson has ever seen, and that includes all of the weirdness that working with Reid subjects him to on a regular basis.

That work, of course, is the cause of the pattern in this instance as well. As Jackson is induced to spend more and more time at the station, so Hobbs has more and more cause to come and retrieve him from Tenter Street. Within a few weeks, as their familiarity with one another grows, the manner of this retrieval changes from a tentative knock and call of his name, to Hobbs shoving the door open (only once he has ascertained that none of the girls are inside, of course. If they are he maintains his previous habit of knocking), marching in, seizing Jackson by the ear and using it to propel Jackson down the stairs.

Jackson is not at all happy with this change, but no one sees fit to consult him on his opinion.

Susan, on the other hand, is thrilled. Not only does it cause pain and humiliation for Jackson (the boy’s a stripling, for God’s sakes, he shouldn’t be able to overcome Jackson so easily), but her customers have somehow gotten the impression that Hobbs is an enforcer for someone Jackson owes money to. Not a whiff of policeman to be had.

Worse, if anything can be worse, Hobbs has taken to ‘apologising’ for the inconvenience of his visits to retrieve Jackson by stopping by later in the day to help Susan and the girls with little jobs. This should be a good thing. Jackson is generally hopeless in such areas and this removes an expectation that he should be the one fighting with broken sinks or moving furniture around as the girls please.

The only problem is, it means his new friend and his gaggle of female gossip-mongers are becoming far too familiar with one another.

‘Oh, Dick, sweetheart, wait a minute,’ Rose calls just as they’re on their way out one afternoon. Jackson has chosen the better part of valour and is not fighting his removal from the house this time. ‘Do this up for me, would ya?’

 _This_ is the dress Rose is planning to wear that evening, or so Jackson supposes. Hobbs’ hands are quick and sure on the laces, and something about the sight sparks an odd moment of jealousy in Jackson, quickly suppressed. What does he have to feel jealous of? He’s had Rose often enough to be intimately acquainted with her many charms, but he has no desire to have her permanently.

One is more than enough.

Jackson nearly topples over as he watches Hobbs drop a kiss on the top of Rose’s head, easy enough a feat given how tall he is, and then turn back to Jackson as if nothing has happened.

‘That…’ Jackson manages to get out once they’re on the street outside. ‘What was _that_?’

‘Miss Rose needed help with her dress, Sir,’ Hobbs replies, with the slow tone of one who suspects their listener of a lack of comprehension. Jackson doesn’t smack him on the head, but it’s a near thing.

‘I could see that, Hobbs,’ he exclaims, stopping in the middle of the street and turning to face the young Constable. Hobbs stops as well, though the way he eyes a nearby clock suggests he’d rather not when he knows Reid is waiting. ‘Why were you the one giving it? You any idea what Sergeant Drake would do if he’d caught you just now?’

‘Sergeant Drake knows better than to think me a… a _thief_ ,’ Hobbs protests, all indignation as he squares up to Jackson.

‘Hobbs, I hate to tell you this, but that man ain’t doing his thinking with his brain when it comes to Rose,’ Jackson informs the boy firmly. ‘Drake’s got a jealous streak a mile wide. He catches you with Rose and he’s not going to stop and ask questions first.’

‘He isn’t going to “catch me with Rose” because there’s nothing to catch,’ Hobbs almost shouts, before becoming aware of the looks they’re earning. Jackson’s glad of it. Soon they’d have been able to hear the pair of them back at the house.

‘You kissed her,’ Jackson feels obliged to point out.

‘On her head,’ Hobbs throws back. ‘I do the same with my sister. I _like_ Rose.’

‘Yeah, kid, I got that. That’s kind of the problem here.’

‘NO!’ Hobbs objects, then looks startled at his own vehemence. ‘I… she’s… Rose is from around here too,’ he finally settles on. ‘She knows this place like I do. It’s just nice to have a friend. Do you know how many of my friends stayed friends when I joined the force, Captain?’

‘Not many, I imagine,’ Jackson responds, feeling suddenly sad for the boy.

‘None,’ Hobbs answers with finality. ‘Not one. You make new friends, of course, among your own, but I’m the youngest at the station. It’s different with Rose. She’s only a year younger than me.’

‘Fine, Hobbs, I understand,’ Jackson tells him. He does, really. God knows he’s always hated being lonely. ‘I have to say, though, there aren’t many men who can look at Rose Erskine and think friend.’

‘The girls are right,’ is all Hobbs says in response. ‘Most men are pigs.’

There’s silence for a short space, then Hobbs suddenly bursts out with, ‘Why are we talking about this?’

‘Beg pardon?’ is all Jackson can think of to say.

‘Why are we talking about this?’ Hobbs repeats suspiciously, then expands with, ‘Do _you_ want Rose? Is that why you’re warning me off?’

‘I’m not warning you off, kid,’ Jackson protests, though he’s unnerved to realise that what he was doing looks suspiciously like that from another angle. ‘I was just worried about you. I don’t want you getting on the wrong side of Drake. Or Susan, for that matter. You cross one of her girls and she will rain hellfire down upon you.’

‘Miss Susan isn’t worried about me and the girls,’ Hobbs says with the same tone of finality he used earlier.

‘Yeah, well maybe she should be,’ Jackson replies, but it’s for the sake of something to say.

What he’s actually thinking is, ‘Now, why is that?’

Susan, who’s so careful of her girls. So careful, more to the point, to see that they don’t form attachments that will harm their work, as a dalliance with a young Constable would. She’s let Rose go her own way with Drake, true, but that’s because she knows where Rose’s priorities lie. Some of the less experienced girls, faced with Dick Hobbs, might see the handsome face and never consider the cost. Susan wouldn’t normally stand for that, not even if she is fond of the boy. Yet, she’s risking it now.

What does she see that he doesn’t?

***


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson has some clues to put together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who left kudos on the last chapter. If you are enjoying reading then please let me know; everyone likes a little encouragement :)

Chapter Two

They’re a little awkward for a day or two after the discussion in the street outside the cathouse. Hobbs is clearly still offended by Jackson’s implication; he keeps a proper distance and doesn’t fall into the teasing that had lately become his habit. Jackson can admit that he, too, is acting a little differently, though it isn’t deliberate. When they’re together he finds himself puzzling over the mystery of Hobbs being given the run of Tenter Street. His distraction makes him much quieter than he usually is, and it must give Hobbs the impression that Jackson is also smarting over their disagreement. Their conversation is stilted at best.

Then comes the incident with the amphetamine.

Drinking it might have been a mistake.

Alright, it probably was a mistake. Anything that made Drake look at Jackson with worry was almost certainly a mistake. But moving on, looking forward, etc, etc.

It gets Hobbs to start talking to him properly again. Jackson isn’t sure whether it’s concern on Hobbs’ part, or if he’s flattered by the knowledge that Jackson would shoot Artherton rather than him. The former seems more likely, but Hobbs has surprised Jackson before.

Either way, Hobbs comes looking for Jackson in the Dead Room once he’s back at the station. It occurs to Jackson later that this is a sign of how well Hobbs is coming to know him, even from their short acquaintance. He knows that Jackson won’t go anywhere near Susan while feeling exhausted and slightly disoriented, the consequence of being abandoned by the drug’s false euphoria. Jackson isn’t even fully aware of his surroundings. If he was Hobbs would never have been able to get his gun away from him as easily as he does.

It’s likely a good thing he chose to wait this state out at Leman Street.

‘I don’t know why anyone let you keep that,’ Hobbs tells him, checking the barrel and emptying the cartridges out. ‘After the way you were waving it at Artherton I thought Inspector Reid would have had it taken off you.’

‘I doubt Reid thinks I could do much damage with it right now,’ Jackson manages, head still slumped on his worktable. ‘He’d be right. Christ.’ This last comes as he tries to raise his head and immediately thinks better of it.

He starts with surprise at the feeling of a hand on the back of his neck, then relaxes as he realises what’s happening. Hobbs rubs gently, as if he somehow knows that the tiredness is making Jackson’s back and neck feel heavy and achy. Jackson hums with relief as the warmth of Hobbs’ hand soothes the feeling, and they stay there quietly for a few minutes.

‘Come on,’ Hobbs says, seemingly deciding that enough time has passed. ‘You need to eat and get home to bed.’

Jackson makes a noise of protest, both at the idea of moving and at the idea of going back to Tenter Street. Luckily he doesn’t have to explain either feeling to Hobbs.

‘The Brown Bear’s spitting distance away,’ Hobbs points out firmly. ‘You made it all the way to the sanatorium and back, you’ll be fine. I’m sure you’ll feel better once you’ve had some food, and we can just tell Miss Susan that it was a long day on the job.’

‘She won’t believe me,’ Jackson points out. With great justice, if he does say so himself.

‘You won’t be the one telling her,’ Hobbs responds, as if that ends all. Probably with equal justice, Jackson will admit. Hobbs has one of those faces people just trust, including the normally distrustful Susan.

‘Alright,’ Jackson groans, heaving himself to his feet with rather a lot of help from his young friend. They make it out of the Dead Room and into the main room, where Hobbs exchanges a nod with Artherton, no doubt to do with the confiscated gun. Artherton won’t forgive Jackson for that one any time soon. It’s not as if they were the best of friends before this either.

The meal is a quiet one, as is the walk back to Tenter Street. They garner very little attention; no doubt they look like a young constable dealing with a slightly unwieldy drunk. Jackson is draped over Hobbs’ shoulders much as he was earlier that day, though he is finding it easier to walk as they go. He feels just as affectionate as he did earlier as well; that much hasn’t faded along with the euphoria. He has a good friend in this boy.

He needs to make sure he remembers that.

***

The following days see them return to the easy friendship they had been developing and Jackson is thankful for it. In recent months he knows he has begun to feel the itch to move, to travel, to leave everything he has found in this dirty city so far from home. Three years is as long as Jackson has spent anywhere since he was old enough to join the army. He’s never been the type for settling down.

Susan is, though. She’s settled here, with her cathouse and the girls she sets to work. Strict as any army officer, more caring than half their mothers, willing to kill to protect what’s hers. She’s a formidable woman and Jackson knows that, when it comes to convincing her to leave, if she’s not ready he has no more chance than a cat in hell without claws.

He can’t leave her, of course. Quite apart from anything else, they are bound by the secrets and the danger they share. If he left her and she was caught by those who hunt them Jackson would never forgive himself.

Sometimes he feels like poor protection for Susan, but he’s all she has.

Thus he remains bound to this place, this lawless shitswarm Susan chose for them, and the urge to leave has become an itch under his skin.

Having a friend, a true friend who seems to need nothing of him but his company, eases that itch for an hour or two. Hobbs is easy. He listens to Jackson’s stories of his travels without pressing for details as Reid would, the Inspector driven by the relentless need to pull threads together, to create tapestries from the fragments that are woven for him. He doesn’t scoff, as Drake doubtless would if they ever actually spoke to one another of these things.

He doesn’t fall for all of Jackson’s tall tales anymore, either, but that just makes telling them more fun. The game becomes seeing how far he can make it before Hobbs realises that he’s being had. More than anything, Hobbs seems interested in Jackson’s experiences and… Jackson doesn’t know how to explain it. Perhaps that Hobbs cares what Jackson thinks about what he’s seen. Most people don’t care for that, only for the details of places they’ll never see themselves.

He finds himself equally interested in hearing the tales Hobbs has to tell. Whitechapel has its dark spots, but there is laughter to be found as well. Today Jackson is particularly entertained by the tale of the enterprising young pickpocket who was bold enough to accept a dare to steal Drake’s billy-club from him on the street, wise enough to know he’d best return it, and had enough self-preservation to send his four-year-old brother to Leman Street to do so, with the claim that he’d ‘thought it could do with a polish and was just trying to help’.

‘What did Drake do?’ he asks Hobbs through fits of laughter, noticing the way that Hobbs’ eyes have lit up with enjoyment, presumably at remembering an incident which caused him such joy at the time.

‘He bought the littl’un sweets from the shop down the road and told him to be certain not to share with his brother,’ Hobbs tells him, smiling widely. ‘And the next time he saw Jack Collier he made sure he gave him a good whack with the billy-club, so he could see his polishing work up close.’

‘Sounds about right,’ Jackson says, leaning back in his seat in the Dead Room. They really need to start having these conversations outside of Leman Street, he thinks idly. Next time Hobbs stops at Tenter Street to help Susan with something Jackson will have to make sure he stays and takes his supper with them. It would have the added benefit of making sure Hobbs is out of his uniform, which might stop the kid looking over his shoulder as if he’s expecting Reid to burst in and demand that he stop _dilly-dallying_ – God, Jackson loves ridiculous English words - and get back to work. They’re beyond Hobbs’ working hours now, but he still hasn’t fully relaxed.

The thought of supper has Jackson wondering at the time, and he checks the clock in the corner of the room.

‘You’d best get moving, kid,’ he says to Hobbs, rising and grabbing his hat. It’s later than he thought, and this is Hobbs’ day to eat with his family.

‘Of course, Sir,’ Hobbs replies, rising without hesitation, then looking surprised when Jackson reaches out with the hat and taps him on the nose with it.

‘I ain’t Sir, Hobbs,’ he reminds the boy firmly. ‘Not when we’re not working, which we are most certainly not right now.’ He’s been trying to train this out of Hobbs for a few weeks, but he’ll admit his success has been limited. The British police are as bad as the American army for their insistence on titles and ‘due respect’. Their idea of due and Jackson’s are also equally dissimilar.

‘Sorry, Si… Dr,’ Hobbs manages. Jackson sighs loudly.

‘That’s not an improvement, Hobbs,’ he scolds, but after that he gives up with nothing but another sigh.

***

Jackson has further reason to sigh not eight hours later. He’s only been in bed a few hours when someone stumbles into his room, the door clattering into the wall and waking Jackson sharply. He comes up with his gun in his hand, pointing it straight at the intruder, only to realise that it’s a bleary-eyed Hobbs staring at him.

‘Christ, kid, you nearly got yourself shot,’ Jackson grumbles, laying the gun down quickly. ‘What the hell is going on?’

He’s turned away, shoving the blankets down as he scrubs at his eyes and tries to wake himself up. These early morning summonses are never a good thing and Jackson knows he’ll need to be far more alert to deal with what’s coming.

It’s only when the silence has stretched to well over thirty seconds that he realises Hobbs hasn’t answered.

‘Hobbs?’ he asks curiously, turning to see which cat has the kid’s tongue. What he sees baffles him for a long moment, so much that he begins cataloguing the sight as he would a body on the slab.

Body still, almost rigid, mouth partially open as if Hobbs was about to speak. Eyes wide and staring, focused in Jackson’s direction but not meeting his eyes. Hands clenched into fists, not a normal state for Hobbs, with one hand gripping the leg of Hobbs’ trousers and the other clutching the bound package which will contain his tunic. Even at this time of night, Jackson notes, Hobbs has obeyed Susan’s rules.

The assessment takes less than a second, and in the next moment Hobbs takes a deep, shuddering breath and then swallows visibly.

‘Inspec…,’ Hobbs manages, voice deep and scratchy as if he’s been coughing a lung up half the night. Which is ridiculous, because Jackson saw him a few hours ago and he was fine. The kid swallows again, then clears his throat, and this time the words come out more easily. ‘Inspector Reid wants you, Sir. I mean… he needs… he asks that you attend to… attend him. At the station. Soon.’

Then Hobbs spins about, goes back through the door and shuts it with twice the force he’d normally use.

‘What in God’s name was that?’ Jackson asks himself aloud, still staring at the spot Hobbs had been occupying moments ago. He’s never seen the kid act like that before. He’s been nervous, yeah. Sometimes when he’s bringing Reid important information he’ll stutter a bit trying to get it all out in the right order, worried about forgetting something. But not like that.

What the hell…?

Right, okay. He has all the evidence. He can work this out. It can’t be that hard.

First, though, he’d better see what Reid wants. Again.

***

He sees nothing of Hobbs that day. Most of the morning and afternoon Reid has the boy running from one end of Whitechapel to the other in search of the crook who might have bought a dead man’s personals from a murderer. Jackson is kept equally busy identifying the exact method of the murder, because apparently the fact that the poor bastard had had the shit beaten out of him, to the point where he was almost unrecognisable, wasn’t enough for Reid.

There is more to the tale than that, and Jackson finds it after much careful examination, but he’s still in a foul mood from being woken so early and from not knowing what the hell has gotten into Hobbs. By late afternoon he’s almost certain the kid’s avoiding him. Normally Hobbs would’ve at least stuck his head into the Dead Room to check if Jackson needed help with anything, but by then he’s back in the station and still conspicuous by his absence.

That evening, back in Tenter Street, Jackson leans back in his chair, thumps his feet down onto the table and lights a cigarette. The tobacco will help him think.

He recalls the image of Hobbs as he’d been in the room earlier; tense and rigid with some sort of shock, then startled and incoherent as he tried to get his message out. It was, Jackson realised, much the same reaction as Hobbs had had the first, and only, time he had entered Jackson’s room when one of the girls was still inside. Then, Jackson had put it down to the natural reaction of a shy English boy suddenly exposed to the charms of a woman he was not married to.

But if that was the case, why the same reaction when there was no one in the room but Jackson?

Then something begins niggling at the back of Jackson’s mind. Something that was different between the two scenarios. It takes a few minutes, and the finishing of his cigarette, but finally the clue slides into view.

Hobbs’ eyes weren’t shut.

The first time, when encountering whichever of the girls it was (Jackson will confess to being unable to remember which one, though he remembers Hobbs’ expression clear as day now), Hobbs had instinctively shut his eyes. His rigidity had lasted mere seconds and then sense had returned and he’d backed out and shut the door.

He hadn’t stayed above a breath or two, and he certainly hadn’t kept his eyes open.

Open. And staring. In Jackson’s direction.

That was the other thing that was different.

Jackson.

Or rather what he’d been wearing. In this case, nothing.

Once he’s reached the realisation, he can only blame the fact it did not come to him earlier on distraction and the fact that it seemed so completely unlikely.

Hobbs as a fancier of men? He would never even have suggested it. Part of him can’t believe he’s suggesting it now. He must be wrong, surely. He must be.

Jackson might have done things with other men a time or two. There are times in man’s life, especially an army man and wanderer like Jackson, when women are in short supply. Sometimes another man’s grip is easier, not to find but to leave when all is done.

Hobbs, though? He seems the sort for a wife and children; settled and stable and normal.

Jackson needs a second opinion.

Thrusting himself out of the chair, Jackson shoves the door open and prepares to shout for Susan. Then he thinks better of it.

If he wants an honest answer, or any answer at all, best he not start by getting her dander up. God knows it’s easy enough to do.

Instead he makes his way quietly down the stairs and, not seeing Susan in any of the parlours, knocks on the door to her study.

‘Come,’ she calls, and when he opens the door she is looking directly at it. Her mouth and shoulders tense when she sees him and Jackson feels the same stab of pain he always feels at that reaction. Once, seeing him made her smile. Now they can’t seem to stop hurting each other.

‘What do you want, Jackson?’ Susan asks bitingly. ‘If you’re after a girl for the evening, you’re out of luck. They are all taken by _paying_ clients.’

‘No girl, Susan,’ he replies, trying to keep his tone even. He shuts the door gently and moves to sit across from her, letting her keep the desk between them. He does try, some of the time. ‘I only wanted a word with you.’

‘Oh yes?’ Susan queries. ‘On what topic, pray tell.’

‘Hobbs,’ he replies, and Susan’s face stills. Jackson feels his brows draw together in surprise. ‘Susan?’

‘What about him?’

Jackson can hear the wariness in her tone and considers carefully what he wants to ask.

‘You’re not worried about him with the girls,’ he says after a pause. ‘I’ve seen you run off delivery boys like they’re foxes after your geese just for mooning over one of them, but with Hobbs you don’t bother at all.’

‘He’s a good boy,’ Susan replies firmly. She appears unconcerned, but Jackson knows her tells. She’s looking down at the papers on her desk to avoid his gaze. ‘He gives no trouble here, why should I worry about him?’

‘He gives no trouble because the girls aren’t in his line, are they?’ Jackson asks. Susan’s evasion only makes him more certain that he is right about this, at least.

‘Dick does not seem the sort to pay for a casual encounter, no,’ Susan tells him. More evasions, and she still isn’t meeting his eyes.

‘ _Susan_ ,’ he growls, though not angrily so much as frustrated. Why will she not speak plain with him, suddenly?

‘What, husband?’ she snaps back. He must be in trouble, these days he is only ‘husband’ when he has done something of which she entirely disapproves. It is his reminder that they are still bound together, that what he does affects her and she means to lay down the law.

‘You know what I mean and you’re deliberately avoiding the question,’ Jackson insists, leaning forward and laying his hands flat on the table as he works to catch her eye.

‘What if I am?’ Susan replies sharply. ‘What business is it of yours what a man does?’

Jackson stills as he realises why she is being so defensive. Stills, because he cannot believe she thinks such of him. Have they truly come so far from one another?

‘You think I would use this to _hurt_ him?’ Jackson asks disbelievingly. ‘Hurt _Hobbs_? Damnit, Susan, the kid’s my friend. When have I ever cared what raised another man’s flag?’

‘Never,’ Susan says immediately. ‘Nor have you ever before asked me about it. What am I to think?’

‘How about that I was worried about him?’ Jackson says, growling again and rising to his feet, pacing for a few moments. ‘That I might want to know because I was concerned? Christ, Susan!’

‘Yes, well a great deal of good your concern has ever done anyone of my acquaintance,’ Susan replies angrily. She might just as well have said ‘me’, they both know what she was thinking.

‘That isn’t the same,’ Jackson tells her, wearily now. ‘Hobbs froze in the middle of my room this morning, ran out and spent the entire day completely avoiding me. I just wanted to know what the problem was so I could make sure it didn’t happen again.’

‘If you want to help him, Jackson, leave him be,’ Susan commands forcefully, sounding utterly sincere. ‘Whatever it is that impels you to befriend him, forget it. Do not… do not give him false hope.’

‘False hope?’ Jackson sinks back into his chair, raking his hand through his hair. ‘He got a bit distracted looking at another man’s body, that’s all. I was just going to warn him to be careful at the station.’

‘Even when your eyes are opened you still can’t see,’ Susan comments with a bitter laugh. When he stares at her she sighs and clenches her fists on the desk. ‘He’s enamoured of you, Jackson. It is not the first time he has looked. Only the first time you have caught him doing so. Trust me, the expression on his face when he does so is not lust. Lust, I know well.’

A minute must pass as Jackson tries to assimilate this new information. The room is silent.

‘ _Shit!_ ’ is still the only thing he can think of to say at the end of that minute.

‘Yes, quite,’ is Susan’s response. ‘Leave the boy be. Maybe he can yet recover if he is not faced with you day in, day out.’

‘Would it have helped you?’ Jackson asks dryly. He knows it would not have, that they had been separated more than once during what could be called their ‘courtship’ and it had only made them wish more for each other’s company. He moves on without waiting for a reply. ‘I can’t avoid him, Susan, we work together.’

‘I am not telling you never to speak to him again,’ Susan admonishes. ‘Just do not spend quite as much time soothing your boredom with his company. You make a… a pet of him, now, and it will only encourage him. And do not DARE suggest to me that I say this out of jealousy!’ she all-but shouts when Jackson opens his mouth to reply.

‘I wouldn’t even think of it, darlin’,’ Jackson assures her, just as dry as before. ‘You’ve made your opinion damn clear. You tell me often enough. I was only going to say that Hobbs is no pet and I’ll thank you not to call him so. He’s a friend, and a good one. _Maybe_ this would all go away if I ignored him from now on, but I’m going to try and save that friendship if I can.’

‘You will hurt him,’ Susan insists.

‘Maybe,’ Jackson agrees, ‘but if I drop him like a hot potato now then I’ll definitely hurt him. Besides, if you thought he was in that much danger from my company you’d have warned me off before now.’

‘Perhaps I feared that warning you would only encourage you to court disaster,’ Susan objects. ‘In which case I was right!’

Jackson stands, done with the interview now that he has the information he needs. Despite Susan’s opinion, he’s not oblivious to the danger here. There are so many dangers in the life Hobbs is leading that Jackson can hardly count them. Does the kid even understand them all? He needs to, God knows, if he’s going to survive in the world.

Jackson needs to talk to him, about that if nothing else. He has to be sure that Hobbs is being careful.

What a beauty of a conversation that’s going to be.

Shit.

***


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Of course, when Jackson planned to have that difficult conversation with Hobbs he forgot to factor in one small thing… Hobbs hasn’t got the slightest intention of having it with him. Three days later the kid is still determinedly avoiding Jackson at every turn. It’s gone beyond frustrating and straight into extremely damned irritating and Jackson’s hold on his temper, never wonderful, is fraying fast. It doesn’t help that he has a large dose of guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, borne of hours trying to identify what he might have done to encourage the kid to fall for him.

There must have been something; Jackson’s ego isn’t so overblown he thinks Hobbs just couldn’t help himself. He’s not _that_ loveable.

On the fourth day, running on very little sleep and with a generous helping of that guilt clogging up his digestion, Jackson finally loses his temper. He catches sight of Hobbs in the corridor, makes only a cursory check to see who might be about, grabs his arm and yanks the kid into an empty room. Then he slams the door shut and places himself square in front of it.

Let Hobbs sneak his way out of the conversation now.

Instead, Hobbs pulls out his billy-club and holds it in front of him.

Jackson’s brain stops dead mid-thought.

It takes several seconds before he can even conjure a response. When he does, it comes without much conscious thought.

‘You too?’ he asks, tone frankly disbelieving and bordering on hurt, even to his own ears. ‘What have I done to you and Susan that’s so bad you both think I’m going to hurt you?’

‘Miss Susan thought you were going to hurt her?’ Hobbs asks in response, voice higher and breathier than normal, speaking volumes as to his nervousness. ‘What did you do?’

‘Oh for GOD’S…,’ Jackson explodes. He’s so furious that Hobbs’ flinch barely registers with him at all. ‘I didn’t _do_ a goddamn thing, Hobbs, and Susan’s never been scared of me a day in her life! She thought I was going to hurt _you_ , though only God knows why. I never did a thing to you. I was actually careful, for once, not that I seem to get any credit for it.’

‘I just thought…,’ Hobbs starts, then grinds to a halt as if he can’t decide what to say next. His face is screwed up in concentration and Jackson doesn’t find that charming. He doesn’t. The kid’s standing there armed, as if he was expecting Jackson to try and beat him. There’s nothing fucking charming about him.

‘I thought you might have the wrong idea,’ Hobbs says at length, though when the words come they practically trip over one another, ‘about what happened the other day.’

‘Bullshit,’ Jackson snaps. ‘You thought I might have the _right_ idea and you’ve been running like a scared rabbit ever since.’

‘No!’ Hobbs blurts out even before Jackson’s finished speaking. ‘No,’ he says again, just as forcefully. ‘The wrong idea.’

The desperation in his tone, coupled with the slightly manic look in his eye, gives Jackson pause. Hobbs is absolutely adamant about this. He isn’t going to budge so much as an inch. The sight of the kid forcing himself to stillness when he’s clearly on the verge of shaking apart softens Jackson’s heart. Even so, he has to try and have the conversation Hobbs is determined not to have. For Hobbs’ sake.

‘Susan’s not wrong about this sort of thing, Hobbs,’ he says gently. ‘Nor am I, usually.’

‘No,’ Hobbs says a third time, eyes huge and almost begging. ‘No, it’s…. I’m a _police constable_ ,’ he tells Jackson helplessly. ‘The law says…’

‘I know what the law says, darlin’,’ Jackson responds. He doesn’t get any further.

‘Don’t call me that!’ Hobbs shouts, then clamps his mouth shut in horror and stares nervously at the closed door. He’s obviously expecting someone to burst through in response to his shout. When nothing happens after several seconds he turns back to Jackson. ‘I’m not a woman,’ he insists angrily.

‘Never said you were,’ Jackson reassures him. Yeah, okay, he could’ve seen that one coming if he’d thought about it for a second. Or at all. ‘It’s just habit, Hobbs, that’s all.’

‘Habit with women,’ Hobbs accuses, still angry, and Jackson can’t help the sigh that escapes.

‘Habit with people I care about,’ he tells Hobbs wearily. ‘Ain’t so many of those now, but there used to be one or two Pinks who answered to darlin’ when I was around.’ It’s true, even if back then it was a joke rather than the term of endearment it was a moment ago. Did he use it because, knowing what he knows now, he’s thinking of Hobbs like one of the girls? Who the hell knows. He hasn’t had enough to drink to start with introspection.

Hobbs looks as if he isn’t sure whether to believe Jackson or not. Jackson just shrugs. Not a thing he can do about that. Kid’ll believe what he wants to believe, like it or not.

‘Look, Hobbs, just promise me you’re being careful, alright?’ Jackson requests. ‘You’re right, the law’s clear enough. Last thing you need is to be on the wrong side of it, and you’re not in the best place to defend yourself.’

‘I won’t need to defend myself,’ Hobbs insists. ‘It wasn’t what you thought. It wasn’t anything.’

‘Sure it wasn’t,’ Jackson agrees, not bothering to keep his disbelief from his tone. He steps away from the door and pulls it open. Once he’s sure the way is clear, he jerks his head in Hobbs’ direction. ‘Go on, kid. Get.’

Hobbs doesn’t wait a second longer. He gives Jackson a very good demonstration of just how quick he is on his feet.

‘Son-of-a-bitch,’ Jackson mutters to no one in particular, then wonders why he feels so irritated. Hobbs did the most sensible thing in the world by denying anything had happened. Yeah, it wasn’t the most convincing denial, considering some of the other comments he made, but he was talking to a friend. Even if Hobbs did seem to forget that at the beginning, Jackson should be grateful that there was some trust still there.

Jackson certainly can’t blame him for denying all. Hobbs is in a world of legal _and_ moral trouble if any hint of suspicion touches him. He’s from one of those families that still goes to church every Sunday for a start. Familial love only stretches so far when scandal hits. Jackson saw it time and again in his life as a Pink. He can’t blame Hobbs at all.

The let-down feeling is just the result of the fight they almost had, Jackson assures himself. Temper with nowhere to go.

That’s all.

***

If Jackson was hoping that the circumstances of their next meeting would be an improvement on the last, then he was doomed to disappointment. The next time Jackson sees Hobbs, he barely sees him at all. His eyes are firmly shut when the Constable jerks the door to Jackson’s room open viciously, voice so low it’s almost a hiss.

‘Is this your version of a joke, Captain? Or is it some sort of test? I can’t believe you refused to come.’

At this point Hobbs must actually look into the room. Jackson assumes he was staring at one of the walls originally, because he wouldn’t normally use that tone of voice anywhere near Susan. Jackson can’t open his eyes long enough to check, however. These headaches are a bitch and he doesn’t particularly want the guys with pickaxes to start whacking away at his brain again.

‘Miss Susan,’ Hobbs says, voice returning to its usual respectful manner. ‘I, uh. I thought Captain Jackson was being difficult because Inspector Reid had sent one of the newer lads to fetch him.’

‘Dick,’ Susan replies, a slight edge to her own voice which makes clear she doesn’t believe a word of it. ‘As you can see, the Captain is indisposed. I cannot imagine why your fellows troubled to send you when I made it quite plain he was in no fit state to attend the Inspector.’

‘With respect, ma’am,’ Hobbs offers sheepishly, ‘they probably thought you meant he was too drunk. The Captain has a reputation and, well, Inspector Reid has always been very clear that he doesn’t much care how drunk Captain Jackson is.’

Ain’t that the damn truth, Jackson thinks. Reid will just have to get over his disappointment. Jackson’s not going anywhere right now.

‘Clearly that is not the case, Constable,’ Susan retorts. ‘Which would have been self-evident had Reid sent someone who knows this household rather than a wet-behind-the-ears idiot who does not realise that I am the last person to coddle Jackson when his suffering is self-inflicted. Unfortunately, the medicine is unlikely to take effect for another hour or two. Your dear Inspector will simply have to _wait_ , as we mere mortals so frequently must.’

‘Yes ma’am,’ Hobbs murmurs, chastened. Jackson hears a faint rustling noise and assumes that Hobbs is on the verge of leaving, but Susan continues the conversation as if nothing has changed.

‘For goodness’ sake, Dick, do not go back to “yes-ma’am, no-ma’am” now,’ she scolds, some of her icy superiority melting away. ‘I have a name, as you are well aware.’

‘Yes, Miss Susan,’ Hobbs replies carefully. Jackson could be mistaken but he thinks Hobbs sounds closer than he was.

‘Much better,’ Susan approves. ‘Now, Jackson should finish having the vapours later this afternoon,’ Jackson summons enough energy to prod her hand in retaliation for that slur. Susan ignores him, ‘at which point you may discuss his macabre duties with him.’

They get no further in the conversation, for Rose interrupts with a quiet, ‘Miss Susan?’ She must receive a signal to continue, for her low-voiced murmur informs Susan that one of their gentlemen callers is early and demanding to be allowed entry. Jackson divines from Rose’s snort of disgust that the man is more than half-cut.

‘Stay with him, please, Dick,’ Susan commands. She gives Hobbs no time to argue; Jackson can hear the swish of her skirts as she sweeps out of the room.

By this time the medicine he doctors himself with during these attacks is beginning to work its magic, and Jackson is able to lift the lid of one eye. He does so just in time to see Hobbs lift one hand and rest it against his forehead, where Susan’s hand had been a few moments ago. Rather than try to respond to the gesture, or interpret its meaning, Jackson simply lets his eye fall shut again and enjoys the coolness against his head. Anything cold feels like blessed relief at this point.

Even so, he’s conscious of the same feeling he had weeks ago, after the amphetamine incident. The knowledge that there is no one he would rather have here with him than this man.

At this rate he’s going to need to drink a brewery dry to drown all the things he’s determinedly not thinking about.

***

‘You realise that this begins to verge on the pathetic, Jackson?’ Susan questions, though her voice is oddly missing its usual acid tone. ‘You are like a puppy pining for its master and that is not the way I expected this to go. Did you carry on so when I was not around, I wonder?’

‘I am not _pining_ ,’ Jackson informs her, letting all of his disgust flood into his voice. The nerve of the woman. It's not as if he asked for her opinion. All he did was come and sit in the study so he could have some quiet. It’s been another long day.

‘Oh yes, you are,’ Susan responds. ‘You have not taken a girl since you and Dick had your falling out, and I have never known you so eager to answer Reid’s summons. Then you sulk in your usual fashion when you return, because Dick is most sensibly avoiding all conversation with you. What is all that if not pining?’

‘Girls pine,’ Jackson says with great certainty. ‘It isn’t pining to miss a friend, Susan. I thought I had a good one. Now I can’t even get him to talk to me. Am I not allowed to be sad for that?’

‘Jackson, will you not take wisdom from one who knows you better than any other? Truly, the last time I saw you act this way was with... well, with me.’

Susan’s voice trails off to sadness at that point and Jackson isn’t sure what to do with it. Susan was the one who forced this wedge between them. Jackson had been surprisingly content with married life while Susan and he had been truly married. He loved her then, loves her still, and has never thought himself the type to love more than one woman at a time. More than one person at a time. Damnit. She can’t be right, surely.

‘Darlin’, if you want things to be as they were then you only have to say,’ he tells her, trying to fill his voice with sincerity. ‘This arrangement wasn’t my doing; I know you remember that.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Susan admits, which is more than she ever has before. Jackson isn’t claiming to be an angel here. He’s been tumbling the girls ever since Susan opened the cathouse, and he can’t say it wasn’t an attempt to hurt her. An attempt to force a jealous reaction, to have her reclaim him if only to stop him taking any other to his bed. It was petty, selfish and cruel. He knows that. He also knows that he was beyond hurt to have offered everything to this woman, to have given up his entire life for her, and _then_ to have her decide that he could not be what she wished. Perhaps they were as bad as each other. Jackson had always suspected she was punishing him for the way they had to live after their escape from America.

‘Then why not stop all this, Susan?’ Jackson asks her gently. ‘Why must I only be your husband when we’re arguing now?’

‘Because we can’t go back,’ Susan replies with certainty. Jackson has no idea what is going on in her head. He would have expected such a discussion to explode into an argument, full of the vitriol they’re so good at pouring upon each other. Instead Susan seems only resigned and a little sad. ‘Especially not now. I’m not even sure I’d want to. I started this separation, Jackson, and made myself this life, but that separation was not complete until Reid pulled you into his world. Until you met our sweet Constable. Tell me, if you could only save one of us now, which would it be?’

Jackson can’t reply. The mere thought is jarring.

Who _would_ he choose?

He doesn’t know.

Or does he?

He shakes his head, and sees Susan do the same thing from across the room. They have become so alike in so many ways since they met.

Susan has been seated behind the desk all through this conversation, but now she rises and crosses the room to stand before him. She holds her hand out and Jackson takes it in both of his.

‘You’ll always be mine to protect, darlin’,’ he promises. ‘I know you think I’m fickle, but my heart isn’t. Surely you know that.’

‘I know,’ Susan reassures him. ‘Even when I was furious with you, I knew you would not leave me. Maybe it’s time I set you free regardless. We cannot divorce, it is not safe, but I can say this. I think of you as his now. And I think he will be good for you.’

‘I don’t know if I _am_ his,’ Jackson protests. ‘I’ve never been like that, and he made it damned clear that he doesn’t wish to be. I’ve had enough of pointless devotion for one lifetime, Susan. What’s the use of dedicating myself to another person who doesn’t want me?’

‘Trust me,’ Susan says firmly, ‘it is not a case of whether he wants you. He forgets to hide his longing when he is among friends here, Jackson. It shows clearly enough. Even if he cannot get in and out of here fast enough when he comes to retrieve you now, it still shows.’

‘He made a good point, though,’ Jackson says, referring to his encounter with Hobbs in the cupboard, which Susan has heard all about. ‘A police constable breaking the law is on perilous ground.’

‘Well, if he needs help to break the law then he has chosen the right man,’ Susan says, and for the first time in a long while her voice is gently teasing. Jackson wonders, for a moment, if in quietly ending their love affair they might yet gain a friendship. ‘You just need to show him that.’

Jackson shakes his head again. He’s still not entirely sure that he _wants_ to show Hobbs any such thing. Okay, he’s attached to the man, pretty deeply attached if admits the truth to himself, but that doesn’t have to mean he’s thinking of him in any romantic way. He told Susan the truth, he misses Hobbs’ friendship. That’s the main thing.

***

Perhaps it would have remained the main thing, or Jackson could have continued fooling himself that it was, if Frank Goodnight hadn’t come to town.

Jackson was not unfamiliar with the idea of sins coming back to haunt you, but he had begun to feel that perhaps he and Susan had hidden themselves away completely enough to be safe.

He should have known better.

He did not regret stealing Susan, mostly because he hadn’t stolen her at all. She came willingly, escaped her life more than willingly, and the only person who refused to accept that was Swift.

No, it’s not Swift’s anger that worries him. It’s Frank’s.

For all Jackson told Susan that Frank didn’t hold grudges, he’d always been a nasty son-of-a-bitch to those who crossed him. And Jackson had crossed him. Or Matthew Judge had. He’d known the moment he’d killed William that he would never be able to claim Frank’s friendship again. Some families, killing a man’s brother would earn you lifelong gratitude, but not the Goodnights.

Shit, they’d made such a bloody mess of everything.

Right in this moment, however, that’s not Jackson’s main concern.

‘You sent him ALONE?’ he almost yells at Reid. ‘Damnit, Reid, what were you thinking? Do you have any idea how dangerous the Pinks are?’

‘About as dangerous as you, I would say,’ Reid responds, no hint of anxiety in his demeanour. Christ but Jackson would like to practice his right hook on the smug bastard. Hobbs. Oh god, Hobbs. He won’t stand a chance. Not against Frank. Not against any of them.

He’s fast, he’s smart, he’s brave, he’s a hundred wonderful things that have made Jackson so damned fond of him that he’ll never be able to leave Hobbs behind, but the one thing Hobbs is not is a killer.

Those men are killers.

And they’re after Martha Fanthorpe.

The woman Reid has sent Hobbs to watch. The woman Hobbs will feel obliged to protect.

Oh god.

Jackson’s out the door so fast that Reid is left gaping in his wake.

***

Where is he? Damn it all, where _is_ he? Not at Fanthorpe’s home, not unless Hobbs has mastered invisibility since Jackson last saw him. He pounds on Fanthorpe’s door and receives no response. Definitely not here, then.

Where would she go? Jackson can think of nothing, stands dumbly on the sidewalk while his brain whirls, the gears slipping whenever he tries to think.

He’s brought back to himself only by the sound of Drake’s voice, yelling his name from the other end of the street.

‘The docks,’ the Sergeant tells him once he’s in range. ‘If we’re right about Martha Fanthorpe she might well be at Fanthorpe’s warehouse at the docks. Inspector Reid sent men out minutes after you left the station.’

‘Thank god,’ Jackson breathes, not meaning Drake to hear him. The stuff about Martha Fanthorpe means nothing to him, but he really doesn’t care. If Hobbs might be there then that’s where he’s going.

He sees a hansom letting passengers out further along and runs for it, Drake swearing as he follows along behind. Jackson jumps into the carriage moments before it pulls away, ignoring the driver’s objection. He has some money on him, meant for Susan so she could go into hiding until this was all sorted out. Not that she’d agreed with that plan, but Jackson had been hoping to convince her when he returned to Tenter Street. He thrusts the notes at the cabbie, which is enough to quieten him, and they pull off.

Jackson isn’t sure whether he breathes at all during the journey. He knows he must have done, he is a doctor, but it doesn’t feel like he’ll ever breathe again. Foreboding filled him the moment that Reid told him where Hobbs was. He’d meant to warn the lad to be careful with the Pinks in town; now that warning seems laughably useless. He should have hidden Hobbs too, even if there was no good reason for Frank to know the boy existed. At least then he might have been safe.

***

They pull up near the warehouses and are greeted by a scene out of Jackson’s nightmares.

Frank has Hobbs, alright, and Martha Fanthorpe. The woman is crumpled in a heap on the floor, but still breathing. Jackson wastes no more than a second on checking that, then focuses on Frank again.

More importantly, focuses on the knife he’s holding to Hobbs’ throat.

How they got to this point, Jackson neither knows nor cares. He can only perceive metal where it should never be, only think of how vulnerable a person’s neck is. Only see how fragile Dick Hobbs looks when he is the hostage of a cold-blooded killer.

‘Come on!’ Jackson hears Frank yell as he approaches. ‘You want the pup, drag that coward Judge out of hiding and get him here.’

Jackson reaches his hand inside his jacket, thinking to grasp his gun, then realises he gave it to Susan before he left Tenter Street.

Shit.

He stares at the scene a second longer and comes to the conclusion it makes no difference really.

He’d never have time to shoot Frank before the guy slit Hobbs’ throat anyway. Perhaps Jackson can win this fight, but only if he accepts that victory doesn’t mean he comes out alive.

Better him dead than Hobbs, that’s the main thing.

‘Come on, you stupid bastards,’ Frank yells, and Jackson realises that the man he once knew is gone, replaced by a man starting to become unhinged from his search for revenge.

‘They don’t know who you’re talking about, Frank,’ Jackson calls as he moves through the line of police officers facing Goodnight. ‘You know that.’

‘Here at last, huh?’ Frank calls. ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’ His eyes are darting around, taking in the scene, calculating odds and planning escape routes. Jackson wonders how long it will take Frank to realise that there’s no way out. This is too public, too desperate and clumsy. Swift will never stand for it. The arrival of more police officers must have really startled Frank for him to go off-plan so completely.

Jackson wonders if Frank will consider that this is how it all started. How William ended up dead, when all Matthew Judge and Caitlin Swift wanted was to get on a boat and leave. Cornered animals are always the most dangerous.

Jackson has to hope Frank doesn’t. The last thing he needs is a bloodbath here.

For now, Jackson makes sure to keep his eyes on Frank, not so much as glancing at Hobbs. The less concerned he seems about his friend, the better off Hobbs will be.

‘Okay, Frank,’ he says calmly, trying to pretend his stomach isn’t tied in knots. ‘Here I am. What happens next?’

‘You come here,’ Frank snarls, beckoning with the hand not holding the knife. ‘Come on,’ he says when Jackson doesn’t immediately move. Jackson begins to walk slowly forward, eyes still on Frank’s face.

When Jackson’s finally within reach of the two men, Frank shoves Hobbs aside and grabs Jackson instead, quickly placing the knife at his throat. Hobbs scrambles away, but not nearly as far as Jackson would like. The sheer relief he’d felt at seeing Hobbs released fades somewhat when he realises that the lad is more focused on Jackson’s survival than his own.

Fuck. Jackson wonders if Frank will conveniently spill all of Jackson’s dark secrets in these next seconds; maybe that would kill some of Hobbs’ loyalty and get his sense of preservation working again.

‘You got me,’ Jackson says after a moment, when Frank hasn’t said anything, trying to keep the man’s attention. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve no idea what to do with me now.’

‘It’s not a _lack_ of ideas, Matthew,’ Franks drawls. ‘I got so many I don’t know which one to pick.’

‘Never struck me as indecisive before,’ Jackson responds slowly. ‘Surely you’ve got a few favourites.’

‘Yeah,’ Frank agrees, ‘but most of those take time. I don’t have an overabundance of time right now, Matthew, do I?’ As he says it, he turns his head to look at Jackson, so Hobbs is no longer in the corner of his eye. It’s clear that he dismissed the Constable early on, convinced there wasn’t much to him.

Jackson knows it’s always a mistake to dismiss the men of Reid’s company. H Division coppers are tough, even the sweetest-looking of them; if they aren’t then Whitechapel chews them up and spits them out. Hobbs might not be able to hold his own against a Pink, but he’s not going down that easily.

In Frank’s moment of inattention, Hobbs gets his hand to a plank of wood - a broken bit of box by the look of it - jumps to his feet and brings it cracking down on Frank’s head.

It’s not enough to knock Frank out, but it makes him stumble and lose his hold on Jackson. Jackson begins to wrestle him for the knife, desperate to get hold of it and make sure it goes nowhere near Hobbs. Then, suddenly, he feels something white-hot graze his temple.

Franks drops like a stone.

Jackson jerks around, as does almost every H Division officer present. They’re just in time to watch a rifle-bearing Pink salute from a nearby rooftop, then disappear.

‘What in god’s name just happened?’ Reid barks, full of the rage that always fills him when things don’t go his way. Jackson ignores him for a moment in favour of checking that Hobbs is unharmed.

‘I’m fine,’ Hobbs assures him when Jackson asks if Frank caught him anywhere. ‘He hit me once before he grabbed me, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, that’s going to bruise nicely,’ Jackson says, examining it for a moment. ‘We need to get something cold on it soon. Could be a lot worse, though.’ He’s astonished to realise that the relief has his hands shaking and he quickly shoves them in his pockets to hide it from everyone else. Hobbs notices, he knows. He feels the brush of Hobbs’ hand against his own for just a second.

‘Jackson!’ a voice calls, accompanied by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. He turns to see Susan marching towards him, his piece clutched in her hand, clearly ready to use it on anyone who threatens them. He’s relieved to see her unharmed and so clearly herself. Their last argument had been fraught, Susan unusually vulnerable in her fear-driven anger.

‘All okay, darlin’,’ he calls back. Susan slows her approach, letting the gun drop to her side. Jackson holds out his hand. ‘Why don’t you let me have that now?’ he asks.

‘I may yet need it,’ Susan growls, having caught sight of Hobbs’ face. She reaches up as far as she can, and Jackson has to laugh when Hobbs crouches slightly to let her reach. Her examination is interrupted by her father.

‘Caitlin, for goodness’ sake,’ Theodore Swift utters, reaching them around the same time. ‘I told you it was all dealt with, there’s no need to make such a fuss.’

‘What would you know of goodness?’ Susan fires at him in return. ‘Your dog slipped his leash,’ she gestures sharply at Frank with the gun and Jackson and Hobbs both flinch before reaching for it. Typically, it’s Hobbs she allows to take it, even though it’s Jackson’s gun, ‘and tried to murder Jackson and seemingly a number of others. Whilst apparently attempting to kidnap an innocent woman!’ The last she says at even higher volume, having caught sight of Martha Fanthorpe being guided to her feet by Drake, pushing him away all the while.

‘ _Matthew Judge_ ,’ Swift responds, emphasising Jackson’s birth-name with great force, ‘murdered Frank’s brother whilst abducting you. One can hardly blame Frank for wishing to…’

‘Oh, I have had enough of this nonsense,’ Susan erupts, whirling on her father in her fury. ‘Matthew did not abduct me, no matter what fantasy you chose to sell to the world. We got married! You may not have approved of my choice but he was my husband and we were both old enough to decide for ourselves. If you had had the sense to accept that then William would never have shot at us and no one would have been hurt.’

Jackson can tell that Swift is working himself up to a full-frontal attack in his usual manner: using his wealth and connections to help him get his way. Susan can see it too, and decides to attack first.

‘Inspector,’ she says, staccato and precise in her delivery, ‘are Her Majesty’s constabulary particularly concerned with the marriage choices of American citizens?’

‘Not overly, Miss Hart,’ Reid responds, taking his cue perfectly. ‘Ought we be?’

‘No, I think not,’ Susan answers. ‘Perhaps you would care to turn your attention instead to that lady over there. She does not seem to appreciate Sergeant Drake’s company. She might have more to say to you. Jackson, shall we go?’

‘Why not?’ Jackson replies, giving a slight shake of his head in wonder at this woman he once married. She should have been running a country, not a cathouse. She was dangerous enough for it.

‘Inspector, you won’t mind if we take Dick with us?’ Susan continues. ‘You have plenty of witnesses here, and Jackson should take a better look at that injury, I think.’

Jackson can see the moment when Reid considers arguing that point with her. He’ll want everything neatened up now, all the loose ends tied off. Then he sees Reid decide he has bigger fish to fry and simply nod his acquiescence.

‘Wonderful,’ Susan announces. ‘Dick, you may take my arm.’ Hobbs has the sense to do as he’s told, but when Jackson glances over at him, all he can see is a look of devastation, hastily hidden when Hobbs realises he’s being watched.

***

‘You are married, then?’ is the first thing Hobbs says, when they have stepped out of earshot of Hobbs’ colleagues and the many bystanders who came to watch the show. ‘To each other?’

‘Oh,’ Susan murmurs, startled. Clearly she had not considered the shock that information might be to their associates. Though she has only ever been known in London as Miss Hart, Jackson wonders if part of her still thinks of herself as Mrs Judge. She had enjoyed the name in those first few months.

‘Yes, Hobbs, we’re married,’ Jackson confirms. ‘Three years ago, just before we left America. As you’ll have gathered, it didn’t start out well.’

‘It hasn’t ended terribly well either,’ Susan adds dryly. Hobbs looks confused, and Susan smiles at him. ‘We remained married only because we could not divorce without alerting my father to exactly where we were,’ she explains.

‘But you love each other,’ Hobbs states, voice as confused as his face. Jackson isn’t sure if it’s comforting or heart-breaking to know that he and Susan still seem in love even now.

‘We do,’ Susan agrees, surprising Jackson so much that he actually lets it show. ‘Yes, Jackson, I can admit it just this once,’ she adds. ‘However, I have discovered that one can love someone and still be absolutely terrible for them. Jackson and I drive one another mad. We bring out the worst in each other almost every day, where once we brought out the best. That is why I choose to be Miss Hart rather than Mrs Jackson.’

‘You never said it like that to me before,’ Jackson points out. Susan sighs.

‘No, I did not,’ she says. ‘Nor am I ever likely to again. But just this once, for Dick’s sake, let us put the dramatics aside. I do not think I am meant to be married, Matthew, but if I am then it is not to you. I am become bitter and angry, and you frustrate me beyond bearing even though I love you. It is time we admitted it and let go.’

They have stopped walking, moving to the edge of the sidewalk even though there is no one around to move past them. It is the middle of the day, most of those in the dockside area are still at their work. The warehouses are full, but the streets relatively empty.

Jacksons takes a moment to think, wondering if he can really let go of this woman he loved so much.

Then he catches sight of Hobbs, and remembers how it felt to know that the other man was in trouble and, quite possibly, out of the reach of Jackson’s protection.

To see that knife at his throat.

In that brief moment he knows that his love for Susan, though still strong, is no longer paramount.

He belongs to another now, difficult though that belonging will always be for them both.

‘Yeah,’ he nods, giving Susan a small, wry smile. It’s an acknowledgement of something they both already knew, but a necessary one. ‘It’s time.’

And so the ties are cut.

Susan isn’t one to dwell once a decision’s been made. She takes Hobbs’ arm on one side, Jackson’s on the other, and they begin moving again.

They say nothing more until they have reached Tenter Street.

***

By silent agreement, Hobbs and Jackson make their way to Jackson’s room together once Susan is safely installed in her study. The house is yet empty, the girls not returned from wherever they fled after it had been ransacked, but it’s safe enough for now.

Upstairs, Hobbs immediately begins picking up furniture and replacing it. Jackson joins him, gathering up his instruments and cursing at the damage done. At the very least they’ll need to be thoroughly sterilised. Some of the worst, bent under oafish booted feet, will need replacing. An expense he could have done without.

All of this is a lovely way of distracting himself from what comes next, but no distraction lasts forever. After several minutes, Jackson props himself against the table in the centre of the room and catches Hobbs’ eye.

‘Darlin’, come here,’ he says, deliberately making his voice as gentle as possible. Hobbs freezes, doing his best impression of a startled deer again, and Jackson sighs inwardly. ‘Hey, it’s just us and Susan here. It’s all fine. Come on, come here.’

He beckons with one hand, trying to ignore the similarities to Frank calling him over earlier. He isn’t going to hurt Hobbs, not deliberately, and that’s a hugely important difference.

Hobbs moves after a few seconds, stepping towards Jackson but stopping a few feet away. He’s just close enough that Jackson can reach his wrist, and Jackson grasps it in his hand. He’s never thought about Hobbs’ wrists before, never had reason to, but it surprises him how sturdy they are. Hobbs’ height makes him look more delicate than he really is, though Jackson is certain that the man is thinner than he should be.

Jackson tugs gently on Hobbs’ wrist and, after some resistance, Hobbs gives in and steps forward. When he’s closer, Jackson stands and pulls him into a hug. He can feel the exact moment when Hobbs accepts the embrace because he folds forward and lays his head on Jackson’s shoulder.

It is, Jackson recognises, probably the first time Hobbs has ever been touched like this by a man outside his family. And that’s only if his father was the type to give hugs, or was around to give them.

The realisation makes it less surprising when Hobbs begins to shake slightly. It’s likely reaction to the day he’s had, coupled with the newness of this and the turmoil of fighting himself at every turn. Jackson’s not the type for self-denial and never has been. He can’t comprehend how hard it must be to push something like this down every day.

‘Shhh,’ he soothes as Hobbs continues to shake. ‘Shhh, darlin’, you’re okay. You’re alright now.’

‘I thought…,’ Hobbs gasps. ‘Just for a second, but I thought….’

‘I know,’ Jackson replies. ‘So did I. But it didn’t happen. Everything’s fine now.’

‘It isn’t, though, is it?’ Hobbs asks, though it is more than half a statement of fact. He pulls away, and Jackson can’t believe how reluctant he is to let go. Yes, he felt like this with Caitlin, a lifetime ago, but that was different.

He’s never wanted to protect a man this much before.

‘We can’t do this,’ Hobbs argues. ‘We just can’t. It’s wrong. It’s illegal.’

‘Does it hurt anyone?’ Jackson asks, using the argument he’s always used in his own head when he’s had encounters with other men. ‘Reid will go after almost any criminal like a dog with a bone, but we both know he turns a blind eye to homosexual offences because he sees no real harm in it.’

‘Artherton and Drake don’t agree,’ Hobbs points out, though something in his face has lightened a little. There’s hope there, Jackson’s sure of it. The lad wants to be convinced, possibly even more than Jackson wants to convince him.

‘Whose opinion do you trust more, darlin’?’ Jackson asks. ‘Theirs or Reid’s?’ It’s probably an unfair question, for Hobbs holds all three men in high esteem, and has genuine affection for Artherton, probably Drake as well. He’ll use whatever weapons he has to hand though. He’s beginning to understand that he can’t afford to lose this argument. Jackson’s always wanted someone to love, to care for, who will _let_ him care for them, and here is someone who might just be willing to let him if he can get past this one barrier.

Someone who might love him in return.

And Hobbs is wavering, Jackson knows it. It hasn’t escaped his notice that he’s called Hobbs darling three times since they arrived, and the other man hasn’t objected once.

Time to push his luck. Jackson takes two steps forward, enough to bring Hobbs into arm’s reach once more, and pulls Hobbs back in. There’s very little resistance this time. Hobbs tucks in against him almost immediately, one hand coming up to curve over Jackson’s shoulder as the other slides around his back. Jackson rests his own arm around Hobbs’ waist, taking a moment to remove his hat before moving his free hand up to stroke the younger man’s hair.

‘We’re not hurtin’ anyone like this, darlin’,’ Jackson tells him affectionately. ‘The only person who could be hurt by it is Susan, and she sent us up here knowing exactly what I meant to do. No, it won’t be easy. Yes, if we were being sensible we probably wouldn’t. But I’d rather be happy than sensible.’

‘You always would,’ Hobbs comments, and Jackson’s certain he’s rolling his eyes where Jackson can’t see. He thinks about taking revenge, then gets completely and utterly distracted when Hobbs’ lips press against his neck. It’s the smallest of gestures, barely worth noticing in comparison to some of the things Jackson has been involved in.

Yet, somehow, it sets his every nerve alight in an instant.

When Jackson looks down, sure his eyes are wide with astonishment, he sees Hobbs giving him a tiny but cheeky smile. Jackson begins to smile himself, feeling it widen slowly as he takes in the man in his arms.

‘Oh, you’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?’ Jackson asks him quietly. ‘What have I gotten myself into this time?’

Hobbs opens his mouth, probably to give an equally cheeky reply, but Jackson cuts him off by kissing him. Hobbs freezes again for a second, something Jackson’s come to recognise as his instinctive response to anything unexpected.

Then he gives the most adorable whimper Jackson’s ever heard and presses close.

Jackson knows it might not be the last time they have to have this discussion. He knows they’ll have to be careful, that in the end this might ruin them both.

But right now they’re both happy, and that’s something he’s learned to take where he can.

Besides, he’s curious to find out where they go from here.

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you waited around for the end of this then thank you for your patience. It's been an interesting few months so it took me longer to get back to this than I expected.
> 
> If you did enjoy then please let me know. There's nothing nicer than that :D


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